


The Offer Untaken

by Brimstone-N-Cookies (stuckinarhyme)



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 05:08:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuckinarhyme/pseuds/Brimstone-N-Cookies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Patrician has to refuse, as does the Assassin and the tyrant. But Havelock, he can answer the question in Sybil's eyes. He can consider the offer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Offer Untaken

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at a porny fanfic. Enjoy, and share tips on making it better!

Vetinari watches. A bad habit, that, but a useful one. He watches how people cower and bargain and haggle for their own piece of the city. He likes to make them think they can convince him of a decision he made before they ever asked.

He watches Commander Sam Vimes. The Duke--who hates that bit, which makes it all the more fun--stops shaking in his cardboard-thin boots when he comes to see the Patrician. He starts being insubordinate the way Vetinari needs him to be. He watches the narrowing of Vimes’ eyes when asked to do something he thinks is stupid. He watches--well, perhaps he watches a bit too closely.

One night, he goes to his chambers. He removes the Patrician with his robe. He takes off the Assassin with his sensible black shoes, and shakes away the cold-hearted tyrant with his underthings.1

All that remains is Havelock, a very busy man. A very tired man. And, when it comes down to it, a somewhat lonely man.

His bare feet pad silently on the carpeted floor. His hand brushes up against the desk as he passes it to his bed. The sheets feel smooth on his pale thighs. He would let a hand run absently across his leg, but he never does anything absently. It all has a purpose. He remembers Vimes’ calloused hands, from the few times they’ve touched, and the sharp intake of breath he heard. The red blush on Vimes’ cheeks. And he remembers how Sybil casually mentions it, a question in her sharp eyes. An offer.

The Patrician has to refuse, as does the Assassin and the tyrant. But Havelock, he can answer the question. He can consider the offer. And imagine the smoothness of Vimes’ newly shaved face, the unbidden moan as Vetinari kisses him. The soft press of Sybil behind him, hugging at hipbones that haven’t been touched for years. Her lips at his neck, whispering and encouraging.

“He likes that,” she says, when Vimes’ eyes widen, Vetinari’s hands venturing beneath his shirt. They wander to Vimes’ ribcage and feel Sam’s breathing quicken.

“Do you?” he asks, one eyebrow arching at Sam. The commander won’t go so far as to say the “yes” at the tip of his tongue, but growls instead, kissing Vetinari again. His tongue is rough and desperate, grabbing for purchase in Vetinari’s mouth. They battle, and Sam’s hand grabs the back of Vetinari’s neck to pull him close. Sam smells like cigar smoke and salt. Vetinari hears a moan, but it must be his own. Sybil keeps massaging his hipbones, licking a soft trail across his bare shoulders. She finds the place at the base of his neck that melts him like hot butter. He purrs and leans against her. Vimes follows. Sybil nibbles on that spot again, sending a shock up and down Vetinari’s spine. He breathes out, softly. Her lips find his ear and whisper, “Turn around.”

In a flash, Vetinari faces her, lips pressed to her neck, her collarbone, her breasts. His tongue swirls around a pointed nipple, steadying her with a hand in case her knees buckle. Vimes, now behind him, doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he improvises. He must have seen what that spot does to him, because Sam kisses it. Softly at first, but when he bites at it, Vetinari does the same to Sybil’s nipple. Two breathy moans escape from either side of him, while Vetinari lets out another shaky breath.

Sybil’s bosom swells beneath him. She squirms, she licks her lips, she grabs at them both. Vetinari, slowly, works a hand from her hip to between her legs. A long finger feels at the wetness there, and slides himself into it. He makes a come-hither motion within her. Sybil’s mouth opens, but her eyes close. She feels warm and soft, muscles tightening around him. Vimes finally works out how to use his hands, and wraps them around Vetinari. From behind, he brushes against the dark hair nestled between his legs, and slowly lets his fingers explore how hard Vetinari is. He squeezes, running his fingers to the tip. At the same time, he bites against at the base of Vetinari’s neck, the bastard.

His knees buckle, he spasms, and Sybil cries out as the fingers moving inside her intensify. A moment later, she moans at the loss of Vetinari’s fingers. He leaves her, wet and wanton, to attack Vimes. Their mouths collide, teeth knocking. Vetinari grabs at Sam’s hips, fingers still slick from Sybil and oh gods he can smell her sex now and it’s like a tornado in his head of cigar smoke and pink nipples and his tongue on Vimes’ stomach, feeling each shuddering breath. He doesn’t know when he dropped to his knees to kiss Sam’s thighs and stomach. Vimes can’t say that he likes. But he shows it instead. He moans softly, eyes fixed on Vetinari’s tongue as it makes a line from base to tip. Vimes, he notices, has more length than girth. Vetinari relaxes his throat--just like in the old days--and moans around Vimes when he’s surrounded as much as he can. Vimes curses, and steadies himself on Vetinari’s shoulder. Sybil stands behind Sam, hands ghosting up and down his arms. She watches Vetinari, eyes blazing. He matches her gaze, and they both moan--her into her husband’s ear, and him around her husband’s cock. The commander curses again (this time more colorfully), and grits his teeth. Vetinari watches them both. He begins to move his mouth up and down Sam’s length with more intensity. He licks the underside, lips covering his teeth. Sam’s hips start moving, and there’s an unexpected amount of cock in his mouth. Vetinari, secretly, loves it. It’s dirty and it’s too much and it’s enough to make him want to forego any illusions of teasing and bring him to completion already. He licks and sucks and breathes through his nose. Vimes watches him, but can’t seem to focus on him. He’s moaning louder, low and guttal. Behind him, Sybil smiles. The hand on Vimes’ chest disappears. Vetinari feels a finger on Sam’s balls, and then another moan--more like a keen. Sybil grins from behind him, a finger playing with Sam’s entrance. Vetinari glances up..

Vimes is gone. He talks, but it’s a long stream of mostly nonsense. His eyes are wild and hungry, and every time Vetinari moans against him, Sam opens his mouth in a big, beautiful “oh” and groans. Vetinari takes him in with every thrust, lips red and raw, touching just the tip of his own cock. He doesn’t want to break off the rhythm of Sam’s thrusts, but if he can’t touch himself soon--

“StopstopIthinkI’mgonna--” Sam says, and Vetinari takes as much of him in as he can and moans long and low. Please, he thinks desperately. Please, for me.

Sam comes, hot and hard, into Vetinari’s waiting mouth. Vetinari swallows and sucks and massages Vimes with his lips. It doesn’t taste quite as good as he remembers from his adolescence, but Vimes’ expression makes up for it. His eyes roll to the back of his head, mouth open and silent. He rocks against Vetinari until he can’t move anymore. His knees buckle, and Vetinari has the presence of mind to remove his mouth before Vimes grabs his shoulders and hauls the surprised Patrician to his feet. Sam kisses him so hard he’s not sure where one of them ends and the next begins. He tastes salty still, tongue grappling with Vetinari’s. He’s silent, but just as desperate. He claws at Vetinari, hands sliding against their mingled sweat. He breaks off the kiss and holds Vetinari at arm’s length by both shoulders. Breathing heavily, he eyes Vetinari and slurs, “Holy gods, Vetinari.”

He allows himself a small smile, face flushed and trying hard not to look like the cat that just caught the canary. 

So he’s caught off-guard when Sam shoves him to the bed. Sybil climbs to him, her face expectant. She, unlike her husband, works gently. She presses her hand to Vetinari’s cheek.

Sybil Vimes, he thinks, the only woman who can turn you on and make you feel comforted simultaneously.

He thinks this just before she places those talented fingers around him. She strokes his cock and purrs. “Tell me what you want,” she says, her grip tightening.

He could say it. He has the words, and his faculties are not so incapacitated that he can’t. But it seems Vetinari has more in common with Vimes than he thought. He takes Sybil by the back of the head, and pulls her to him, a surprised and gleeful squeal escaping her. Her thighs brush against his, so close--he guides her hips nearer with his free hand. Her squeal turns into a deep-throated moan. She sits on his cock slowly. He feels how wet she still is, and smells her sex once more. Gods, it’s intoxicating. She settles in, eyes the dazed Vimes, and begins to move. Her thighs are thick and glorious. He runs his hands up them, and lays a gentle finger between them.

Sybil moves faster, slick and insistent. Her breasts bob; Vetinari’s eyes remain fixed on them.

So transfixed, in fact, that he has forgotten about Sam, until two calloused hands take hold of his long black hair and pulls. Vetinari moves his hips to match Sybil’s, and they both close their eyes. Sybil moans at each thrust, saying his name breathlessly.

Vimes pulls again at his hair, harder this time. He leans in close, cigar breath tickling his ear. “Touch her,” he offers. Vetinari reaches one shaking hand to a bouncing breast and squeezes. Sybil moves faster, her voice getting higher. Vetinari squeezes again, thighs slapping against hers. She reaches an arm out to his shoulder for balance. For a moment, she goes still, mouth open and eyes closed.

And then, like a wave, she crashes into him. She screams and shudders, her muscles tightening around him. He keeps moving, because it feels so good. He smells her sex and Vimes’ cigars and hears their heavy breathing and he’s suffocated by their closeness, their scent and Vimes is pulling his hair again--

 

He comes silently. His hand feels sticky and wet and hand. His room is dark now, the sun set some time ago. His breathing fills the room, but pales in comparison to the silence.

Vetinari sighs, and his shoulders sag. He cleans up. He puts on his sensible shoes, the dusty black robes, and takes on his responsibilities with them.

After an appropriate amount of time, there is a quiet knock on the door. When he opens it, Vetinari’s face isn’t even flushed. He’s reading at his desk by candlelight. “Come in, Drumknott.”

The attendant opens the door and pokes his head in. “My Lord, Commander Vimes has asked to see you.” In the background, he can hear a familiar voice calling his name through the walls. Drumknott adds, “He says it’s urgent.”

“Of course,” the Patrician says, and stands slowly, his fingers steepling on the desk. “Show him in.”

Drumknott nods, and disappears. For just one moment, Havelock feels naked and vulnerable. But by the time the Commander appears, hopping mad, Vetinari is the cold-hearted tyrant, the Assassin, the Patrician once more. “Ah, Commander,” he says. “How nice of you to stop by at this hour.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Of which not even his tailors knew anything about, except that they must, somehow, exist.


End file.
